Providence at Dusk

Today I saw the earth open its mouth again. Many a men stood by the rim of the opening. They were all dressed in black. Their posture was slouched and their heads tilted down. Women's heads were pointed to the ground also, their cleavage now a cradle for their wondering chins. 

They formed a semi-circle, all overpowered by gravity and powerless against the cycle of life. 

From afar each figure looked like a pillar of darkness, adjoined by an unspoken bond to protect some sacred treasure from the eyes of outsiders. The general state of idleness was interrupted only by occasional sobs that sent slight tremors down the pillars, a few coughs here and there that attested to their humanity. 

From the sudden sobs and the solemn appearance and the obligatory silence, I gathered that I had been watching a group of mourners. Yet whose death was it that they mourned? I got no chance to think of an answer, for as soon as the question crept into my mind, the chain of thoughts was broken by a light tap on the shoulder. I turned around and saw my mother standing behind me. She looked so old and decrepit. She looked not so much like a human being, but like a scarecrow who had been neglected for years by crows and passersby alike. For a moment, one that stretched in my mind into eternity, I forgot about the mourners. I wanted to ask mother why she looked so fragile. What had happened and why hadn't she contacted me? But as soon as I attempted to open my mouth, I found myself speechless. I was no longer a thirty-two year old man, but a toddler who had forgotten the alphabet. Before my mother, whom I had not seen in years, words lost all their power and wit. Before my mother, I was a newborn whose only method of communication was to cry for attention, and my sole desire was the warmth of her bosom. Thus I began to cry. And mother heard my cries despite the indifference of the mourners, and mother smiled and walked toward me, and mother said gently, softly, that just because she is dead, it does not mean that she wants to see me cry. And with those words, she vanished and so did I. Suddenly I was in my office, and on the mahogany table in the middle of the room, amidst other papers sprawled across the surface, I saw an unopened letter. I tore the envelop open and held the paper in my trembling hands. It was her handwriting. Her delicate handwriting that fueled the most tedious words with the intense beauty of a Shakespearean soliloquy. 

I read the letter. When I was done reading, I read it again and again. 

In it, mother said that she had been hesitant to send the letter at first, for she knew that I was a busy man and probably did not have the time to answer letters. 

In it, mother said that she could have contacted me via email, but the written word held much more meaning and charm. 

In it, mother talked extensively of books and movies and music, for she knew those were the only things we used to talk about when time was still kind to us. 

In it, mother spoke of how she had re-read Promise at Dawn, and how it had given her the final push to write this letter. 

In it, mother said how she only had a few months left to live, and how she would very much like to see me if she could, or even hear my voice. 

In it, mother apologized for having interrupted my busy schedule. In it, mother said that I would always be her little boy. 

In it, mother said that she missed me very much. In it, mother said that she hoped to see me soon. 

In it, mother said that she loved me. And somewhere faraway earth opened its mouth. 

And then the coffin was lowered into the open mouth. 

And then the mourners mourned. 

And then the earth closed its mouth and devoured the soul. 

And then, only meters away, it opened its mouth once again, to devour and digest another life.